


Passengers (Markiplier/Reader AU)

by Hogwhorets



Category: Youtubers, markiplier - Fandom, youtuber
Genre: Avalon - Freeform, Cryopods, F/M, Homestead II, Movie AU, Passengers AU, Starship - Freeform, hibernation, hypersleep, passengers - Freeform, space, space travel, spaceship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-10-26 22:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10796307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hogwhorets/pseuds/Hogwhorets
Summary: The starship Avalon is transporting 5,000 colonists and 258 crew members, in hibernation pods, to the planet Homestead II, a journey taking 120 years. Thirty years into its journey, the ship passes through a meteor storm, causing major malfunctions and temporary system failures. The malfunction awakens one passenger - mechanical engineer Mark Fischbach, 90 years early.





	1. Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> So as is the working title, this is a fanfic based on the plot from the recent sci-fi movie Passengers. I don't claim this plot to be my own, nor the details surrounding it. I just couldn't pass up the chance to throw Mark in space. Enjoy!

A gleam of light against the rays of a thousand suns, glittering like specs of dust in the galaxies on the horizon; a black shadow in a blacker sky; a twirling, shining chariot of hope, heading straight for a rain cloud of meteors: the  _Avalon,_ a revolutionary starship carrying 5,258 people to their new home on the colonized planet  _Homestead II._

Empty halls, empty tables, empty bedrooms. All vacant for decades but spotless, ready to be moved into. Waiting, like a dutiful pet, for their owners to wake in a little less than a century and stumble, disoriented, to them. Robots did the work that sleeping bodies could not; beetle-like rovers cleaning and waxing the floors; spider-like robots wiping the windows and surfaces with their spindly silver arms. 

A room full of little pods, gleaming gold and lined with sleek white plates, filled with the passengers that will not wake for a long time. They were raised slightly, lying at an angle with closed eyes and seemingly still chests, all at a prime age and dressed in gray Homestead Company brand shorts and tank tops. There were no children, no senior citizens. Just a diverse bunch of humans a couple of decades old - not including the amount of time they've been asleep. 

There was a loud sound - a crash, perhaps. Something hitting the starship's shields a little harder than it was used to. The sound of bending metal, echoing down the empty corridors. 

One of the pods was glowing a little brighter than the others. " **MARK FISCHBACH.** _Rate 2 Mechanical Engineer._ Denver, Colorado. Age:  **28** , Blood Type:  **A+** , Passenger Class:  **Silver** , Fare:  **One-way** ". The sensors on his arms and chest perked up and two mechanical arms slid out of the side of his pod, injecting him in the arm and neck with some foreign fluid. The screen on the side of the pod, displaying his information and vitals, geared up with line after line of medical data. His temperature and heartbeat began to increase. Finally, his lungs expand with a gasp of life, using every inch of space in his ribcage to expand.

He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly, trying to clear the grogginess from them. The sensors retreated back into the sides of his pod, replaced by a screen a foot from his face, showing a smiling woman with a flight attendant uniform on. He stared at her, confused, trying to figure out exactly how he'd gotten into this position. 

"Good morning, Mr. Fischbach!" She was inhumanly beautiful, too perfect to be real. He wasn't surprised - HomeStead Company had a knack for designing perfect men and women for their use. She was just that: a design, a computer. Not real.

He sighed, disoriented, squinting at her face. "Mark. What the...-"

She was gleaming like a child on Christmas. "Don't worry,  _Mark._ It's normal to feel confused. You've just spent a hundred and twenty years in suspended animation." She was talking at him in a voice that almost sounded sultry.

He scowled, rubbing his eyes. On the screen, the stewardess disappears and is replaced by a short clip of happy people slipping into hibernation pods and undergoing the hibernation process, and then those pods being loaded onto the ship. Shortly after, the clip cut back to the smiling stewardess, who continued, "You're a passenger on the Starship  _Avalon -_ a Homestead Company Starship. We've nearly completed the 120-year flight from Earth to your new home - the colony world of Homestead II. Congratulations!"

The screen began to play a short simulation of the Starship leaving a skyscraper-looking building on Earth and soaring into space, following a lined trajectory to a lush, green planet - Homestead II. It finally unclogged Mark's memory, flooding him with images of the moments leading up to his suspended animation. "Oh, yeah."

She grinned. "The  _Avalon_ is on final approach. For the next two months, you'll enjoy luxury space travel. Food. Fun. New friends." The screen played a short cut of smiling faces traveling around the ship, carrying out the tasks she listed. He saw sports amenities, shops, dining - the lot of it. Her voice continued to play in the background. "Then you'll start your new life on Homestead II. Back to basics. A fresh start. Room to grow."

Mark had to admit, the publicity shots of Homestead II looked remarkable. It was one of the things that had inspired him to move to begin with - mountains, forests, beaches. All barely touched. Settlements, ringed by farmlands, looking to expand. 

Suddenly, the woman reappeared on the screen and his chair began to lift, gently putting him in a position that would allow him to stand. A glass of pink juice and a handful of pills appeared in the hands of two robotic arms, coming out from the sides of his pod. "Your wake-up capsules and nutrient juice will help you recover from hibernation!"

With a grimace, Mark took the glass in his hand and opened his mouth, allowing the supplement-looking capsules to fall onto his tongue. He quickly gulped the juice down, hating the way it tasted, and handed the glass back to the extended arm. The pod raised even more, finally releasing him onto his feet. He stumbled for a second, gripping the sides of the pod with both hands.  _I haven't stood on my feet in one hundred and twenty years,_ he thought, looking down at his legs.  _My calves still look good though._

Another panel on the pod opened, revealing a folded piece of fluffy white fabric and two white slippers. "Make yourself comfortable in your complimentary robe and slippers." 

He did so, wrapping the robe around his body and letting the slippers fall to the ground, where he could slide his weary feet into them. He had to admit - it was a softer fabric than he'd ever touched, and he was a little more than satisfied with wearing this for the rest of the time he spent on this ship. 

"Your shipcard is your key to the starship, and has been encoded onto the band around your right wrist. Don't lose it!" She laughed, a delightful high-pitched sound that made him slightly uncomfortable. "Now you're ready to go to your cabin. Make yourself at home! Enjoy the rest of your voyage, Mark!"

He turned to look at the screen, muttering a soft, " _Right,"_ under his breath, but the stewardess had disappeared and the screen had retreated back into the pod. At his feet, a glowing blue line appeared in the floor, guiding him to the corridor ahead of him. It was then that he noticed the other pods. No one else had woken up - all of them were frozen, eyes closed, not yet disturbed. A look of concern crossed his face. Perhaps he'd been the first one? 

The stewardess's voice filtered like a bell through the speakers in the ceiling. "Mark, your cabin is  _this_ way." The blue light in the floor flashed again, brighter than before. "Take elevator D to deck seven. Your cabin number in on your ID band."

He looked down at the silver band, a groggy nod rolling through his shoulders and head. "Thanks."

Yawning, Mark ran a hand through his thick black locks and began to trudge in the direction she'd led him, his slippers making faint shuffling sounds on the cold, hard floor. He rubbed his face, finding that it was growing increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open. He could hear the doors of his pod closing behind him, returning to the same elevated position as all of the other ones, only the lights were no longer on.

It took him a minute to find the elevator foyer, but after some urging from the blue line and his own sleepy cognition, he managed to locate elevator D and step inside. Music began to play above him, a soft and happy orchestral melody, and he tapped his foot. It took only a moment before the doors were open again, spilling light into the corridor of deck seven. A little cleaning robot zoomed away from him, spinning and dusting in its wake. He laughed.

The lights in the hall brightened as he stepped out of the elevator, and the blue light appeared on the floor once more, traveling down to a door lit with the same color. The robot spun at the end of the hallway and turned back, whizzing past him. A robotic voice said, "Hello, passenger."

Mark was startled. "Hello, robot." He even offered a wave, but the robot was already at the other end of the hallway. 

He followed the blue line to the illuminated door, glancing down at the number on his band to ensure that it was correct. Sure enough, the numbers matched, and when he flashed his band in front of the scanner on the left side of the entrance, the doors slid open. He smiled, surveying the room.

"Cozy, but small. Reminds me of a hotel room." The doors closed behind him as he stepped inside. There was a bed, a desk, and an armchair. Some screens were on the ball opposite of the bed, and he had a little nook of a bathroom, but other than that, it was a fairly basic room. "No window."

As he plopped down on the edge of the bed, the screen across from him came to life, flashing the Homestead Company logo. A voice plays, though it doesn't sound like the stewardess. "Welcome to your cabin, Mark! Your home until we make landfall."

He was half-listening, already intent on searching the drawers. Someone had unpacked one bag of his luggage, filling the drawers with a few of his clothes and other items. He was impressed, as it was more neat than he would have managed. He felt a little weird about people handling his stuff though. He also wondered where the rest of his stuff was. Mark poked his head around the corner - a little screen on the wall was playing the same video. 

"Over the next two months, you'll prepare for your new life on Homestead II." More clips. "Passengers are organized into Learning Groups for orientation. You've been assigned to Learning Group...thirty-eight, for engineers and technical skills! Don't forget!" The words 'Learning Group 38' flashed on the screen - bright white, blocky letters.

The door rang, much like the classic doorbells one found back home. Mark felt himself perk up, excited to speak with someone. He slid his band across the screen to open it, and found -

No one. He deflated, a frown already on his face. He looked down, finding a waist-high robot with two duffel bags wedged under its mechanical arms. "Passenger Mark Fischbach?"

"Yeah, that's me." 

"Your luggage, passenger Mark. Swipe your shipcard to confirm."

Mark swiped his band across the screen on the robot's head, watching as it stepped forward and deposited his bags on the ground. "Enjoy your luggage!"

Mark laughed a little, slightly amused by the bouncy way the little robot moved. It's screen depicted a glowing smiley face, almost ridiculous looking. "Thanks."

The smile brightened again - a little pulse of the same hue of blue he'd followed on the floor. "Thank  _you,_ passenger Mark!" With that, the robot zipped out the door, disappearing around the corner and exiting through a small removed panel in the wall. He wondered how many secret passages littered the halls of the ship, and if there was some room all of the robots rested in, unavailable to passengers. Probably, right?

As he stepped back into his room, he couldn't help but notice that he still hadn't seen another person. Maybe they were all in their rooms, too? Surely he'd see some people when he went to eat in the cafeteria, or in passing as he headed to orientation? His entire Learning Group was composed of people. That satisfied him.

The screen in his room was still buzzing with life. "Your group's orientation starts in forty-five minutes. Join them in Conference Room Twenty on Deck Two. Don't forget!" Finally, the screen faded to black, leaving him in silence to prepare himself for the orientation. Mark settled for getting ready and leaving a little early - he'd probably get lost on the way, knowing himself, and had to make time for that. 

His fingers twitched with excitement. He hadn't been by a window yet, but he knew that when he did, he'd be gawking. He was in  _space._ SPACE. He'd been in hypersleep when they'd boarded the ship and set off, so he had yet to glimpse the world outside of these walls. His thoughts were rapid fire, wondering where they were in the galaxy, and what if felt like to step outside the ship. Surely there was an observation deck.

Yeah, he'd have to check that out. For now, though, he had a class to get to.


	2. Hope

Deck four looked more like a shopping center, with tiled floors and ornate storefronts. As he walked down the corridor, he became vaguely aware that he'd never changed, and still wore his robe and slippers. Not that he was complaining - it was super comfortable, and after waking up from one hundred and twenty years of hyper-sleep, he wasn't exactly concerned with looking good.

As he passed the carefully designed storefronts, they came to life, flashing lights at him and playing faint bits of different tastes of music. He rounded the corner, finding a more official looking hallway - it was empty, unlike what he'd expected. Was he later? He didn't think so; after all, he was usually pretty on top of his timing, and with things this important, he hated to be late.

He found the room the guide had told him about and stepped inside, taking note of the long, black conference table and twenty or so chairs, all of which were empty. Maybe he was early, then. That had to be it. At the head of the table, the chairs tapered off and became sparse, and a large screen spread across the wall. Yet another all-too-perfect looking being was smiling at him from her place on the wall, straight white teeth somehow inviting and alarming.

She seemed to shift out of her resting patience mode and looked to him, smiling. Or rather through him. "Hello, Passengers. Will you all please take a seat?"

He looked over his shoulder, frowning awkwardly. Still no one else, and the doors behind him had closed. Something felt wrong. Regardless, Mark did as she said and grabbed for the back of a chair half-way down the table from her, promptly plopping down and turning to face her.

Her face came to life. "Earth is a prosperous planet. The cradle of civilization. A world with a long, proud history." Behind her, clips of Earth's towering, smog-ridden cities and lines of traffic played, solidifying her next point: "But for many, it's also overpopulated. Over-priced. Overrated. Overrun."

The unsettled feeling in the pit of Mark's stomach began to grow as no one else showed up, and he raised his hand, stuttering, "Can I just-"

"No questions until the end please."

He sighed, motioning to all of the empty seats. "Where are all the other-"

She continued as if he hadn't kept going, forcing Mark to swallow his question and sit back, anxiously tapping the top of the table. She went on about how shitty Earth was and how _promising_ and _pristine_ and _innovative_ living on Homestead II would be. After a few minutes, her words turned into paragraphs, complimented by various aerial shots of the colonized planet, with rolling hills and mountains and rivers. He plopped his head down into his hands, taking a deep breath - he almost felt like he was back in college, forcing himself to stay awake through a lecture.

After an hour, she finally began her closing remarks. "...thriving job markets in mining, farming, and manufacturing. An explosion in the cultural arts. And if you long for the life less civilized, you can apply for a pioneer permit and seek your fortune in the wild." She paused, grinning, "Any questions?"

He almost exploded out of his chair, loudly dropping his palm to the table. "Where _is_ everybody?" His tone was more demanding than he meant it to be, but the thought that she was an AI system and not simply a confused public service worker made him feel less guilty about it.

She looked at him in a way that made it seem as if the question had confused her. "We are all on the Starship Avalon. Five thousand passengers and two hundred and fifty-eight crew members."

He sighed. "But I'm the only one here." He thought for a moment, remembering the odd experience he'd had after he'd first woken up. _All of the other hibernation pods were still in hypersleep. No one else had woken up yet. Surely a ship of this type wouldn't be so inefficient as to wake us up at different times, right? Not to mention, I haven't seen anyone since..._ The color drained from his face. "I'm the only one awake."

"No, all the passengers wake up at the same time." She was smiling at him - a sickly sweet smile that unsettled him further.

He groaned. "Then something's wrong with the other hibernation pods."

She frowned again. "Hibernation pods are fail-safe."

He couldn't help the irritation in his tone. "So why am I the only one here?"

The AI twitched, looking crossly at him. "I'm sorry. I don't understand your question."

Mark groaned again, rubbing his hands over his face. He could tell quite clearly how useless this venture was going to be.

 

 

 

Deck Four and what he could see of the lobby below were still empty - it was eerie, to see everything lit up and waiting for people to use it, when no one would. He felt with a twinge of discomfort to his chest how close this must be to what the main characters of those movies about space isolation felt like, though the actors got to hang up their costumes and go home to a family, or go out with friends. He was beginning to worry that this was becoming his reality.

In the lobby, a bright blue kiosk gleamed about fifteen feet from the entrance to the elevator, light a beacon of hope to his confusion. He rushed towards it, smiling in relief as the screen came to life. "Hello!" The overcompensating-nice-robot voice said. "What's your question?"

Mark flailed his hands around in a 'I didn't think that through before coming here' sort of fashion, mumbling, "I need to talk to a person. A real live person." He gripped at the sides of the kiosk, watching as a faint blue smiley face flashed across the screen.

As the kiosk responded, corresponding icons popped up. "What sort of person? Personal trainer? Travel planner? Therapist?"

He shook his head, trying to remain calm. "Someone in charge."

"The Ship Steward handles passenger affairs. You can find him in his office on the service deck." A map appeared with a black dotted line to show the way.

Mark let out a soft breath, a rush of relief flooding his system. "Thank you."

The smiley face appeared again. "Happy to help!"

The service deck wasn't far, and it wasn't as if he was fighting crowds and noise to find it. The ceiling lights brightened as he entered; the ventilation system seemed to kick on to a higher setting, allowing for cooler, cleaner-feeling air to flood the hall. He anxiously read the signs next to the doors, searching, unrelenting until he found the right one. _Ship Steward._ There it was.

Mark ran a hand through his hair, standing in front of the closed office with his breath hitched in his throat. He was scared to let it go. Slowly, with every nerve in his hand wired tightly in anticipation, he pushed open the door. It was an office covered in dust: barren tables and chairs, black screens on the walls, the blinds drawn. At the desk sat a chair, but there was no one in it. "Not good," He muttered, finally releasing his breath, "Not good."

He found himself running, stumbling, his feet carrying him back to the kiosk. It wasn't lit up as before, so he anxiously tapped the screen, considering what it might tell him next. "Hello! What's your questio-"

"Who's flying the ship?" His hands gripped the sides of the kiosk so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"The bridge crew includes the Captain, the Pilot, the Chief Navigator-"

"The Captain. I want to talk to the Captain." He was waving his hands again.

"The Captain rarely handles passenger queries directly."

"Emergency, okay? Where is he?"

"The Captain is usually found on the Bridge, on the Command Deck."

Mark was already running, and so he did not see the helpful map that popped up in his absence, as it had done before. His eyes carefully scanned the signs, using the directories on the walls as pointers in the right direction. Lucky for him, all important decks and rooms seemed to be centralized right around this area. He found the Bridge in no time.

His fingers felt frozen as he pressed the screen next to the door, hope burning painfully in his chest. Slowly, the metal teeth rolled open, only to reveal a second door, gleaming silver and obviously reinforced. Letting out a panicked whimper, Mark swiped his band over the screen, peering through the little window at the top of the door. It didn't open, instead flashing a bright red lock icon at him. It was then that he noticed the blocky lettering on the door - **FIREWALL AND SECURE ACCESS AREA**.

He slammed a fist against the door, looking again into the window. The room was absent of life, with only little glimmering work lights to illuminate the bits of technology in his sight. From here, he saw what looked to be pods around a bend in the room, but he couldn't tell if the were empty or not.

"Come on!" He yelled, pounding on the hatch. "What the hell is happening!"

He was relentless. It wasn't until his muscles were screaming at him and his eyes were full of panicked tears that he gave up. Instead of lying down and accepting his defeat, he broke into a full sprint, the water in his eyes leaking out and pressing to his cheeks at the force. "Hello?" He screamed, running out into the cafe courtyard. He passed restaurant fronts; lounges; shops. All deserted.

Panic was evident in his voice. "Hello? _Hello!"_ He took an elevator to the top floor, feet tapping anxiously. Perhaps from the edge of the highest floor he'd be able to see if there was anyone on the decks below. Perhaps he'd see no one.

The doors rolled open and he skipped through them before they were finished - they weren't fast enough. "Please," He murmured, rounding a corner. His vision was blurred.

The highest promenade on the ship had windows on all sides and a huge skylight overhead, making it seem very much like he was outside, almost. The center of the floor was open, with an overlook that plummeted seven stories to the concourse below. He peered over the edge of it with hope in his eyes, so pleading and alive that one might've gasped at the sight of it. It diminished quickly - the decks below were empty, and not a soul stirred in the lobby. Save for the rooms he'd passed, the office lights were off, and the doors closed, and the blinds drawn. It was so quiet, this room, and he felt with certainty in the pit of his stomach that he was the only one walking this ship. But his hope wouldn't let him give up just yet. 

"Hello?" He called out, listening to the way his voice carried down into the pit below him, spreading out and slamming without response into the floor. 

There was a noise behind him. He whipped around, allowing a sharp intake of breath, chocolate eyes scanning desperately for the source. But it was only one of the robots, wiping conscientiously at the windows. It did not take notice of him, completely oblivious to his presence at it whirred past him. It's spindly arms reached places he could not, wiping at smudges that were not there.

It was then that he noticed the sign. It was above eye-level, suspended from four strong wires a few feet above the robot. It read,  _OBSERVATORY - Your Place In the Universe._

Mark sighed, running his hands through his hair. He had an engineering background, surely he could make something work. Perhaps if he could figure out just how far they were from their destination - via the Observatory - he could begin to formulate a plan to get things back on track. Maybe something had gone wrong with the pod wiring, and they  _were_ supposed to be awake, but had yet to be revived? If so, he could probably track down some manuals and find a way to wake them up. It might have been above his paygrade, but he was sure he could figure it out. 

And so that was what Mark resolved to do; wiping the wetness from his face with a newfound determination, he trudged on in the direction the sign pointed him. 


	3. Observatory

The observatory looked more like a theatre, with rows of seats all pointed at a central stage of sorts. It seemed almost holographic, with a vast expanse of gray lining on a window behind it, and from what Mark could tell, the gray cover was obscuring a large window. Bits of light seeped in at the sides, casting the room in a darker yellow glow that was accentuated by the dim lights lining the walls. A lot like a theatre, actually.

As he entered, he noticed the floating screen - a hologram - ahead of him, centerstage, glowing with the words, _Look Through the Eyes of the Starship Avalon!_ He approached the front, mesmerized by the glittering lights in the open air around the image. A deep voice boomed above him. "What can I show you?"

He responded, but didn't try to find the speakers with his eyes, instead reaching his fingers towards the hologram. "We're supposed to land pretty soon, but it looks like I'm the only one awake. Is that normal?" He knew the answer, but he asked anyway, hoping this God-like voice might soothe him somehow.

It was a fruitless venture. "I don't understand," The voice answered, "What can I show you?"

He thought about that for a second. "Show me Homestead II."

The hologram sputtered out and shifted, creating an elongated path that passed just a foot from his head, stretching from the door to the window. It showed a course, of sorts, marked by a little blue dotted line. Homestead II, Earth's shiny new twin sister, popped up at the end of the line nearest the window, it's name announced in big white letters.

"Homestead II is the fourth planet in the Bhakti system."

"Right," Mark said, remembering. Truly Earth's twin. "And how soon are we landing."

"Approximately ninety years."

Mark choked. His eyes widened in horror, fingers balling into fists at his sides. Surely he'd heard wrong. Something was wrong with this computer system. "What?" As he asked the question, a little gray model of the starship appeared on the timeline, much further back than he'd hoped it would be. It was closer to Earth, the little ball of light on the end by the door.

"We land on Homestead II in ninety years, three weeks, and one day." As the voice spoke, a curved line appeared above the section of the course between the ship and Homestead II, with the words '90 years' floating above.

"No." Mark felt the color drain from his face. There were tears in his eyes. "How long ago did we leave Earth?"

"Approximately thirty years ago." Another curved line, underneath the short section of the course between Earth and the ship. '30 years' appeared underneath it as well, further rubbing the information in.

Seeing the information displayed for him in that way, laid out like a math problem, he came to a horrifying realization. Every bone inside of his body began to shake, sending his limbs into small quivers and the hair on his arms and neck into an erect position.

He was too shocked to allow the water to leak from his eyes. "I woke up too soon," He said, defeated. Mark slumped to the floor.

"I don't understand." The voice was impassive, unfeeling.

"Neither do I," He mumbled back, staring blankly at the hologram above him.

 

 

 

 

 

It had taken him a long time to get off of the floor. He'd stared numbly at the image, talked up at the voice, talked to himself. He'd done everything and more he could to make sense of what was happening, but it couldn't be done. It shouldn't have happened.

But he wouldn't give up so easily. Once he'd succumbed to his doubts a little, he felt refreshed enough to generate a surge of hope once more. He could figure this out, surely. He could do something. So there he was, sprinting down the corridor to the hibernation bay, his heart pounding so harshly in his chest that he felt it in his temples. 

The only reason he could recall where his hibernation pod was located was because of the people he'd noticed around him, and the angle at which he'd trudged to the hallway. The lights inside of it were off now, and the walls of the pod had closed back into their resting position. He fussed at the controls, pressed buttons vigorously with his fingers, but the words " **PASSENGER DISCHARGED** " just kept flashing across the front panel. Mark crouched, pulling at the closed panels - it didn't budge. Nothing he was doing was working. 

He pounded his fist on the glass. "I'm supposed to be in there!" He yelled, sighing heavily. For a moment, he rested his forehead against the cool glass, his shoulders swaying with heavy breaths. He lay like that for a few minutes.

He was exhausting himself. With a sigh of defeat, he began to trudge towards the other end of the hibernation bay, passing pod after pod of sleeping faces. They were all blissfully unaware of the trouble he'd been thrust into. It was a bitter voice in his mind that reminded him that he'd be dead before they woke up. 

 _No, Mark, stop. You can't think like that._ He rubbed his hands over his face, looking around. On the wall that he was approaching was a door, and on that door was the label, ' **CREW HIBERNATION FACILITY** '. He reached for the pad on the wall, both eagerly and curiously, and watched with bright eyes as the little metal teeth once again shrunk into the wall. Behind it was something he didn't want to see - another steel reinforced door, with the same " **FIREWALL AND SECURE ACCESS AREA** " label as the other one. 

He tapped the screen. No result. Mark stood up straight, peering through the little glass window at the top; there were rows of hibernation pods with what could only be crew members asleep inside of them, faces constructed in a deathly sort of peace. It was unsettling. 


	4. Arthur

He found himself back in the Grand Concourse, once again gripping the sides of the Information Kiosk and waiting impatiently for the cheerful robot to respond to him. "Hello, what's your-"

"How do I make a phone call?" He didn't want to go through the same scripted introductions over and over again.

"Your cabin telephone-"

"No," Mark said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was desperate. "Long distance. How do I send a message to Earth?"

A map appeared, same as the other times he'd looked to the Kiosk for help. It showed a little flashing room on the deck above him. "Interstellar messages are sent by laser array. Speak to the Duty Officer in the Comm Center." The map flashed again. "Please note that interstellar messaging is an expensive service."

Mark scoffed, pushing his hair out of his face. As he was walking away, "Bite me."

The kiosk's smiley face was looking back at him. "Happy to help!"

  
  
  


The communications center was located on the command deck, where office after office sported various types of equipment regarding the ship’s relation to both planets. It sparked Mark’s engineering background with curiosity; he wanted to sit down and just _look_ at some of this stuff, perhaps try to figure out how it worked. He’d never seen this sort of space technology firsthand save for now. It was astonishing, really.

But that wasn’t why he was here. With a stop that almost sent him careening into the wall, Mark found the right room and stepped hastily inside. There were two communications booths for passenger use, and it was only seconds before he’d chosen one and plopped down onto the stool - one of those cushioned stools that spun around, but he’d have to address that later - with his band already raised to the screen.

The booth whirred to life, it's screen flashing a bright green color before settling into the Homestead Company logo. "Planet and connection?"

He rolled the stool closer, resting his elbows on the edge of the desk. "Earth. The Homestead Company."

A list began to roll in front of him. "There thirty thousand phone numbers listed under 'Homestead Company'. What number?"

He sighed, his right hand flailing about in front of him in that way it did when he was grasping for words. "I don't know," He said, exasperated, "I'm migrating to Homestead II. I have an emergency."

The list stopped. A number was illuminated. "Division of Colonial Affairs, Homestead II program. I have a Customer Help Line."

He nodded, releasing a sigh of relief. With a small chuckle, he realized that the computer wouldn't see his physical responses.  _Or does it_? Mark squinted, trying to pinpoint a camera. "Sounds about right."

Just as he'd thought, the screen changed, showed a reflection of his face staring back at him.  _Oh, there it is._ A small panel on the top of the computer opened, showing the reflective black screen of a high-quality webcam. It zoomed in on his face, and another panel opened, revealing a robotic arm and a microphone. A little red RECORDING light came on in the upper right corner of the screen. 

"Begin message." 

He paused, choking on his words.  _What do I say? Damn, I should've given that some thought._ He shook his head, taking a deep breath. "Hi. I'm Mark Fischbach. I'm a passenger on the  _Avalon._ Something went wrong with my hibernation pod and I woke up too soon. I can't get back to sleep. Nobody else is awake."

He could feel himself beginning to panic a little. "If I don't figure something out, I'm going to die of old age before we get to Homestead II. So help me out here." He took a deep breath. "I'll keep trying to fix this. Maybe I missed something simple. But I could use a hand. Thanks." 

He looked down, taking notice of a little green button on the front-facing panel just below the screen. He pushed it, watching as the word SEND lit up and then dissipated, leaving a blank button behind. 

"Message sent." Of all the robots he'd encountered, this one had the most monotone voice. 

"Thank god." He put his weight on his elbows, gazing at the screen with more hope than before.

"Message will arrive in nineteen years." 

He froze. " _What_?"

"Earliest possible response in fifty-five years."

Once again, the floor opened out from under him and left him spinning, panic flooding his veins with the force of a broken damn. "No." He muttered, pushing himself back from the desk. " _No_."

The computer almost seemed as if it were trying to comfort him. "We are nineteen light years from earth. By the time your message arrives, we will be thirty-six light years from Earth. We apologize for the delay."

He was devastated. "Fifty-five years," He repeated, quietly. Given, Mark wasn't that old, and he may very well still be alive then, but at what cost? What help would it do him then? There was a reason they only took young, able migrants to colonized planets such as Homestead II: there wasn't a place for people that were dependent on someone, and in fifty-five years, he very well may fit into that category.

The computer whirred again. "That will be six thousand dollars."

 

 

 

His feet barely carried him. He felt zombie-like, as if those characters he'd been fighting for years in his games back home had overtaken him and made him one of them. Shell-shocked. Confused. Paralyzed. His slippers scuffed against the floor. 

He passed halls he had yet to explore and storefronts that did not interest him, eyes barely shifting from the ground in front of him. It wasn't until he saw a dim yellow glow and heard faint music that he looked up, and what he saw proved to be the most comforting thing of the day. A bar, with glittering yellow lights and a sitting area, all decorated very nicely and surprisingly clean. He guessed he could credit the robots with that.

He approached, studying the black leather stools and the marble bar top. Curiously, there were glasses sitting in various places along the bar, but he couldn't imagine anyone had been drinking from them. They were probably strategically placed to make it look less un-touched, as was everything on this damn ship. 

Mark pulled himself up onto a stool, and as he did so, a man appeared from behind the bar, smiling at him. Mark nearly jumped out of his skin; it was a nice looking man in a bartender's uniform, with oddly perfect hair and skin. 

"What can I get you?" The man had a glass in one hand and a rag in the other, which he used to wipe nonexistent smudges. A name tag on his vest said 'Arthur'. 

Mark was a sputtering idiot. "I thought I was the only one awake!" 

Arthur frowned, looking at him in a way Mark thought a parent might to their child, if that child were to say something stupid. "I doubt it. It's the middle of the afternoon. Are you drinking or not?" He had a soft accent, Mark thought, somewhere from the United Kingdom.

Arthur set the glass behind the counter and pressed the rag onto the counter. In one swift movement, he glided down the bar, dragging the rag along it's surface, and rounded out to the other end. It was whirring and fast, oddly mechanic, like he was on roller skates. Confused, Mark stepped up on the footrail and peered behind the counter. 

Arthur's body ended promptly at the waist, somewhere just above the ends of his uniform. The bottom half resembled a spherical contraption, with moving parts that cascaded down and connected to the bottom of the bar and the floor, keeping him on a track from side to side.

"You're a robot," Mark said, deflated.

Arthur's face twitched into something slightly sarcastic. "Android, technically. Arthur's the name."

He'd known that already, but he didn't say anything. He extended his hand. "I'm Mark."

Arthur shook it, his hand surprisingly flesh-like, although cold. "Pleased to meet you," He said pleasantly. "What'll it be?"

Mark thought for a moment - he wasn't supposed to drink, and he new that. But what if he going to die anyway?  _Don't be an idiot._ "Nothing for me, I can't drink."

"A virgin, then." Arthur spun around, preparing something behind him that Mark couldn't quite see. He heard the clink of metal and the slight shift of fluids as Arthur made his drink. When he spun back around, he had a virgin Piña Colada in hand, and gave it dutifully to Mark. 

Mark took a large gulp, appreciating the sudden burst of flavor. He hadn't realized how hungry he'd been. "Thank you." He took another sip. "Arthur, how much do you know about the ship?"

Arthur shrugged. Mark tried to figure out how he did that. "I don't know. I know some things."

"What do I do if my hibernation pod malfunctions." 

Arthur scoffed. "Impossible. Hibernation pods are fail-safe."

Mark sighed, leaning back against the small surface the frame of the stool provided. "Yeah, well, I woke up early."

Arthur shook his head. He was smiling like he knew he was right. "Can't happen."

Mark raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. He was challenging him. "How long until we get to Homestead II?"

Arthur's responses were automatic, rapid-fire. He was prepared for questions, Mark gave him that. "Ninety years or so."

"And when are all of us passengers supposed to wake up?"

"Not until the last two months."

"So how can I be sitting here with ninety years to go?"

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but stopped short. His face twitched. His eyes looked at Mark's face. "It's not possible for you to be here." He seemed satisfied enough with that answer and went back to cleaning a glass that wasn't dirty. 

Mark nodded. "But I am."

A roll went through Arthur's shoulders again. Mark wondered how he did that. "Sorry, Mark. My specialty is cocktails and conversation. Take your fancy trick questions to one of those Infomats. They think they know everything." 

Mark rubbed his hands over his face, sighing. "Arthur, I'm in trouble. I'm screwed." He peered at the android through his fingers, mumbling hopelessly, "I am completely, ridiculously screwed."

"Lot of self-pity."

"Self pity?" Mark said, incredulous. This android was proving to be frustratingly unsympathetic. "I'm going to die of old age on this ship, by myself!"

"Mark," Arthur said, setting the glass down, "We all die. Even androids end up on the scrap heap. It's not dying that matters, it's living. This is your life now. Are you going to live it or lie down and die?"

Mark threw his hands up in surrender, shaking his head. He was quiet for a moment, considering Arthur's words. He had a point, however small it was.  _I need to keep trying to fix this. I can't just give up._ He sighed.  _Surely the company put in some sort of safety precaution in case this happened, right? I just have to find it. I can do that. I'm resourceful._ "How much do I owe you?"

Arthur's smile was pleasant. "It's on the house. Now," He said, grabbing another glass, "Tell me about your waking up early."


	5. Trapped

He'd found the observation deck that night. It was a moody lounge, with plush white furniture and coffee tables; the kind of place one would expect to find a VIP section of some sort. There were panoramic windows on three out of four walls, and when he hit a button on the wall, the blinds drew up and revealed to him a world he'd already fallen in love with.

Red and orange stars glittered in a beautiful light display around them, forming constellations no one had mapped yet, and kissing the edges of galaxies they had yet to explore. Closer to the ship - though still hundreds of thousands of miles away - were stars of a softer yellow, almost white. They were all so breathtakingly beautiful that Mark found himself entranced, standing in the doorway like a fool at a high school dance. Slowly, tentatively, he crept forward, placing his fingers to the glass.

It was extraordinary, unlike anything he'd ever seen. He was crying again.

 

 

 

 

The cafeteria was large, white, and empty. The floor robots buzzed across the linoleum tile, waxing and polishing the dust away. In the center of the room was a trio of cylindrical pods, with six flat screens on each face. On the screens was a green-and-black display of the menu, with a smaller panel on the left to swipe an ID band. 

Mark entered the room slowly. It was how he'd started entering every room, as if he half expected to see people sitting there, waiting for him. It had only been a day and he was already beginning to feel alone. He imagined if he wasn't so introverted naturally, he might've had it worse. 

He wore his own clothes now - jeans and a t-shirt - and had taken a shower, so his hair flopped, damp, across the right half of his forehead. Now that he was clean and semi well-rested, he felt a little better about getting to work with his pod.

Mark approached the menu pod, swiping his band over the screen and selecting the COFFEE tab. Sixteen different drinks popped up, their icons taunting him and begging the caffeine-addict bits of his brain to select them. Obviously, he chose the best of the best, pressing his finger to the icon in the top left corner.

"Sorry, the Mocha Cappuccino Extreme is reserved for gold-class passengers. Please select another item."

Frowning, Mark tapped the next one.

"Sorry, the-"

The next one. 

"Sorry-"

The next one. 

"Sor-"

He tapped every one of them, receiving the same response, until at last he came to the final drink. "Large coffee," The machine announced, revealing the cup on a small ledge by his waist. He took it, gazing into its black contents. 

"Seriously?"

"Please enjoy." The screen returned to the home tab, waiting for his next decision. 

Mark groaned, selecting the breakfast tab, and went with something simple at the bottom of the list - he didn't want to endure the machine's apologies again. Then, coffee - minus cream and sugar - in one hand and a plain egg sandwich in the other, he returned to the corridor with the elevators. His coffee, though plain, wasn't bad; the flavors were very rich, and it wasn't bitter enough that he really needed to add anything else. The egg sandwich, however, was one of the plainest tasting things he'd ever had.

The elevator ascended to the Command Deck per his request, and when the doors opened, he took notice of the big sign above him, 'Crew Area - No Passengers beyond this point.' He breezed past it, uncaring, and began the day's search for something to better his situation. As he sipped at his coffee, Mark opened doors, looking for any sort of storage or container that might carry tools he'd need. 

After a few minutes of stalking quietly down the hall, he came to a door marked EMERGENCY GEAR and opened it eagerly. The room was dark and ominous looking. Sipping his coffee, Mark felt along the wall for a light switch, wondering why this room, unlike the rest of the ship, didn't have motion activated lights. Then again, he didn't imagine it was visited very frequently, so it would just be a waste of energy. That made sense. 

Lining the walls were glass display cases that contained very official-looking space suits and oxygen tanks. Where the cases ended began a couple of rows of containers bearing the word  **HAZARD** in bold red, also made of glass. From here, he could see what looked to be some classic emergency materials: fire extinguishers, an axe, medical supplies, and something else. He crouched next to it, trying to read the label.  _Epoxy foamer,_ he read internally,  _like for space leaks? Oh, like my glue gun in Prey! That's so cool!_

On the final wall was a tall cabinet of chrome and black, with two doors on the upper half and four drawers on the lower half. He pulled open the top one, taking well to the term 'EMERGENCY MANUALS'. What was inside made Mark smile like an idiot: little black books with chrome bindings, each depicting a title and image on the front. Now  _this_ was something he could get behind, being an engineer and all. 

The next two drawers had the same contents - fireproof, waterproof manuals. They were small, too, meaning he could easily carry them around. He began to flip through them, taking long looks at the covers and having short debates in his head about their usefulness. He made it through the top two drawers and halfway through the third, with a couple already tucked under his arm, before he came to the one manual he _really_ needed: HIBERNATION SYSTEMS. He felt like he'd won the lottery. 

 

 

 

 

Subdeck B was more of a storage facility or warehouse-type room, with row after row of little containers of passenger cargo. After all, that's what this room was dedicated too, and five thousand people's worth of belongings for their stay on Homestead II really took up space.

He'd secured a forklift and managed to locate the key, and though it was useful, he was a little disappointed. He'd sort of wanted to try the badass 'car-jack' technique he saw in getaway scenes from action movies. Regardless, it made his trek down aisle after aisle much easier, and before long he'd found the row for passenger numbers 1000-1499. Seeing as how his number was 1498, he figured he'd be at the very end of the row.

He was right, too. Sure enough, there sat a large container with his name and ID number on it. He used the forklift to pull it from its place on the shelf, setting it calmly in the center of the row. 

Mark climbed down from the forklift and approached the box. He'd pulled it open in seconds, struggling only slightly with the force of the hatch, and was met with box after box covered in labels like "sports" and "clothes" and "kitchen stuff". Buried at the bottom was what he really wanted: his toolbox. He hauled it out of the container and brought it over to the forklift, sitting it in a small, open portion of the floor on the right side, where his feet wouldn't catch on it. He didn't bother putting his storage container back - he'd do that if he was finding success, just to be considerate. 

With the forklift returned, Mark started his trek back to the elevator, his destination already in mind. He didn't want to waste time; it was still early, and he wouldn't be able to sleep that night if he didn't at least try to tinker with the hibernation pod. 

The elevator doors opened to reveal a room that hadn't changed - the hibernation bay. He didn't stop to inspect the others this time. He bee-lined for his pod and sat down on the side with the information and statistics panel, setting his toolbox in front of him. Pulling the manual he'd stuck into his pocket out, Mark began to unpack his tools, not really sure which ones he'd need. 

The manual had tons of useful information, starting with how to get the damn thing open. He grabbed for a screwdriver and began to jam it into a small, rectangular port on the side, prying the top cap off to reveal yellow wires underneath. They weren't easily told apart, save for the little number on their end next to the connector. He found the number that the manual told him to and traced it back to its origin, twisting it carefully into another position. The next wire sat conveniently beside the first one, and it wasn't long before he'd pried the ending off of both of them and was - hesitantly - pushing the revealed ends against one another. There was a spark and a small sting, but he hardly noticed, already focused on the light that had come on inside the pod. The data screen on the side whirred to life, displaying information where it had previously been black.

The panels on the main portion of the pod opened. Mark jumped to his feet. He quickly pulled his shirt over his shoulders and slid into the pod, assuming the position he'd been in when he'd woken up. He took a deep breath, allowing his eyes to roll closed and his body to relax, awaiting the process that would put him back to sleep.

Nothing happened. He poked at the ports where the robotic arms had come from when he'd woken up; he shook the machine with his body weight. Still, nothing happened. This wasn't working. 

Sighing, he pushed at the canopy, figuring he might've just messed with the wrong wires. The panels trapping him inside the pod didn't budge.  _Oh, shit_ , Mark cursed under his breath. He pushed again, beating his fists on the glass. It wasn't moving.  _Oh, fuck, I'm trapped in here,_ He thought, panicked,  _How the hell..._ He stomped his feet, yelling, looking desperately for some sort of release. 

He was exhausting himself. Deflated, Mark sunk to the floor of the pod, however tight the fit, and stared hopelessly out at his scattered tools. He placed a calloused hand on the window. What if he was trapped in here? No one was awake to free him.

It was then that he noticed the release lever on the ground. He pulled it, and with a sigh of relief from his lungs the panels shifted open. He crawled out before they'd retracted fully, stumbling to the floor and remaining there, heaving stressed breaths. From the corner of his eye he saw the data panel display the same message as when he'd first woken up:  **PASSENGER DISCHARGED**. 

Mark pulled himself from the floor quietly, gathering his tools. The crew hibernation bay door sat defiantly across from him. Looking down at his tools, he had an idea. Mark approached the door and held his wrist up, swiping his band over the keypad.  **ACCESS DENIED**. He peered through the window at the sleeping crew, poking the keypad again.  **ACCESS DENIED**. 

He reached down, taking a screwdriver from the box and using it to pry the front panel off of the keypad. It clattered loudly against the floor.

He observed the panel behind it, covered in reinforced plastic layers and littered with wires of different colors. This was going to take time. On the bright side, time was something he had plenty of.


	6. Z Factor!

**THREE WEEKS LATER**

It was early. Had this been Earth, it was doubtful that the sun would have been up yet, and all would be dark and uninhabitable. But there Mark was, tools littered on the floor around him, his shirt drenched in the sweat of his labor. He worked tirelessly at the door to the Crew Hibernation Facility with a laser cutter, gritting his teeth and mumbling curses under his breath. Sparks flew at him. His hair was mussed and long; his beard was unkempt.

After grumbling to himself and tossing the laser cutter to the floor, he lifted his mask, peering at his work. The tool had barely left a scratch on the surface of the door; the rest of the door, however, was a mess. The wires from the panel he'd cracked open that first time dangled limply, accentuated by the scratch marks around the frame, from where he'd dug tools in to try and pry it off. The window at the top had a few scratches from where he'd bashed it, but nothing that would compromise its integrity. There were drill holes along the wall that had never taken enough to make a difference. There were dents in the metal from an axe. But nothing he'd done was working - nothing. 

He slumped to the floor again. His laser cutter had joined a pile of other tools: sledgehammer, jackhammer, drill, crowbar, axe. All things that had proven useless. 

He began his walk back to the Concourse Bar. His hibernation pod looked much as the door did, littered with dents from his frustration and tools he hadn't found use for. There were spare tools littered down the path to the bar, as well, and he didn't bother to gather them as he passed.

Arthur stood behind the bar as he always did, polishing glasses that didn't need cleaning. He looked up when Mark trudged in. He was sweaty and grimy as he sat at one of the stools, with dirt smeared on his face and obvious exhaustion etched into his features. Mark sat in silence for a long time.

"I thought I'd figure something out," He murmured eventually, voice soft with defeat. "I thought it would come to me."

"Stands to reason," Arthur replied simply.

"But I've tried everything."

Arthur offered him that weird mechanical shrug he had. "Sometimes you can't catch a break, Mark."

Mark pondered that, looking down at his hands. Arthur set a drink in front of him - Mark hadn't noticed him make it. For the last few weeks, he'd been drinking whatever Arthur handed him, though none of it was alcoholic. The android was creative enough to keep Mark's tastes entertained, but the knowledge that he couldn't drown his sorrows was enough to make him even more depressed.

He looked up. "I'm your only customer, but you're always polishing a glass."

Arthur smiled. "Trick of the trade. Makes people nervous when a bartender just stands there."

Mark sat back, crossing his arms. "Okay. Lay some bartender wisdom on me. I'm lost in space here." He was laughing at his own pun.

Arthur was wiping down the bar with a rag now, his oddly human-like expression almost thoughtful. "Alright. You're not where you want to be. You feel like you're supposed to be somewhere else. Right?"

Mark wanted to scream. "You said it," He drew out sarcastically, wondering if this android had ever listened to a word he'd said about waking up early.

Arthur didn't notice his saucy reply. "Well, here's the thing. Say you could snap your fingers and be wherever you wanted to be. Back on Earth, or on Homestead II."

"Okay."

"I'll bet even if you got your wish, you'd still feel this way. Not in the right place. Supposed to be somewhere else. That's not a crisis, it's the human condition."

Mark took a second to consider that. As absurd and oversimplified as it was, he had to admit, Arthur may have been on to something. But Mark being as unsatisfied in one of those two locations as he was hurtling alone through space? Absolutely not. "That's not me."

"Well, maybe not." Mechanical shrug. "The point is, you can't get so wrapped up in where you'd rather be that you forget to make the most of where you are."

Mark leaned forward on the bar, taking another sip of his drink. It was sweet, but not like a dessert. It was more subtle than that. He liked it. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"It's a big ship, Mark. You're always running around banging on things and yelling at computers. Take a break." He smiled, warm this time. "Live a little."

Mark swiveled around in his stool, leaving the bit of his drink that was left on the counter. "Live a little," He repeated softly, a small smile pulling at the edge of his lips. He grabbed the counter with both hands and pulled, hard, sending himself spinning around in the stool. 

As the stool slowed and he could make out Arthur's face again, he saw the android...laughing? "That's the spirit," Arthur said. 

Mark went for the counter again, intent on spinning some more, but missed and fell from his stool. He laughed as he tumbled to the floor, only able to see the crest of Arthur's head. 

He'd never really put much thought into what Arthur had said to him before. Here he'd been, for weeks on this ship, and he'd never thought to take a minute to explore. He'd seen a lot of it, yes, but most of it had been during a panic-fueled frenzy or while he was searching for something specific. A silver-class member such as himself could find many opportunities in being here alone that he wouldn't find otherwise. 

So there he was, viewing a map on the kiosk screen in the Grand Concourse, his eyes brighter than before. He found the deck of second-class cabins - where he lived - and the deck for first-class cabins. They weren't that much bigger, much to his disappointment, but it was short-lived. With the press of a button, he found the final floor of rooms. Or suites, rather, named after European cities and positively huge compared to his own humble cabin. He flipped through the list, looking for the largest one, and found it: Berlin. 

The door was stubborn. As he'd assumed, his ID band didn't work with the access panel, and so he'd resorted to prying the door open with a crowbar from his toolbox. Luckily, this door wasn't nearly as guarded as the one he'd spent the last three weeks working on. With a satisfying grinding noise and a jolt in its frame, the door slid open. 

The inside of the suite had high ceilings, with beautifully sculpted lighting fixtures of which he'd never seen the likes of before. The furniture was nice and...futuristic. He laughed at the irony. The far wall was mostly windows, with long strings that brushed the floor - for closing the blinds. 

He'd gotten a cargo robot - the same one that had brought his luggage to begin with - to carry his bags and toolbox to his new suite. It deposited them on the floor just inside the doorway, its face flashing that same blue smile he'd seen the first time. "The Berlin Suite! Enjoy your stay!"

Mark wished people were as nice as the robots on the ship. Except Arthur, who could be salty, but he made a good companion. A drinking buddy. Mark laughing at his thoughts again. 

Dropping the crowbar off with the rest of his stuff, he settled to look around and break in the new place. The suite was complete with a full kitchen, bathroom, living area, and a bedroom on a loft above. The first place he went was the bathroom: he needed to get clean, and desperately. 

The bathroom was equipped with sumptuous pieces, including a grandiose bathtub with what looked to be jets lining the interior. Excited, he turned on the faucet, making sure the water was hot before plugging the tub. Mark was usually more of a shower guy, but he could definitely go for a relaxing bath right now. And a massage. And a drink. I'll look into the massage. 

Once the tub was full, he shed his clothing, sinking down past the steaming surface. Behind him, a panel shifted, revealing a long, robotic arm with a sponge. It washed at his back, freeing him of the layer of dirt he'd collected from the last few days' work. He took care of the rest, settling for dipping his face in the water and washing it first, and then moving on to the rest. When the arm disappeared, he dipped back into the water, rinsing his hair with some shampoo and conditioner. It had been set aside, and resembled generic hotel-brand soaps in no way. This was a luxury suite.

When he was finally clean and feeling a little more relaxed, he pulled the drain plug, forcing himself out of the tub. The air wasn't as chilled as he thought it would be, and a towel sat waiting for him within arm's reach. Mark wrapped himself up and swiped his feet on the bath mat. He felt like a new human being. 

It took digging through his luggage to find his shaving kit, but when he did, he headed straight back to the bathroom. This was something he'd have to take care of immediately to feel clean. He had no intention of being clean-shave; instead, he trimmed his beard, making sure it was back to it's normal, complimentary self. His hair he tackled too, lopping off a few long strands on the side and taking a comb to the rest. It was longer than he usually kept it, not quite like it had been in his early twenties, but like it got when he decided he needed a haircut. 

Satisfied with himself, he packed up his shaving kit and stowed it under the sink, settling instead for unpacking the rest of his stuff. Mark put clothes away in drawers and hung nicer things in the closet. What few mementos he had, he lay out on the counter surfaces and the coffee table. Once everything was done, he tucked his empty bags and his toolbox away into the closet nearest the door to the room. 

A pair of sneakers stared temptingly at him from the foyer. It was time to explore the ship.

The first thing Mark had found was a basketball court. He'd humored his curiosity for a short amount of time, but quickly remembered that he wasn't really a 'sports' guy, however athletic he may look. After hearing the buzzer scream his lack of height at him a few times, he’d exhausted the idea. 

Next was the spa. This was something he’d been anticipating for a while - his shoulders and back were so tense that he felt like a human knot walking. He didn’t worry about the prices of things when he entered and was handed a brochure. If he never found a way back into his pod, money wouldn’t matter. He’d be dead before they could charge him. If he did? Well, he could always sue.

So he found himself face down on a soft massage table, with a towel draped over his lower body, the edge brushing his lower thighs. A pair of robot arms sprouted from beneath the table; they had surprisingly delicate fingers, and he found himself snoozing as they worked, utterly thankful he’d chosen the longest massage.

He’d awoken with a small jolt, feeling finally all of the blood that had rushed to his face while he slept. Groggily, he crawled into a sitting position on the table and rubbed at his eyes. His stomach was growling.

The place he chose to satiate it was one of the best fine dining areas on the ship - Marcello’s. Mark loved Italian food, and there was something about the bulky robot waiters moving around that made him chuckle a little. 

The restaurant was decorated ostentatiously, with pristine white tablecloths and glittering diamond chandeliers. He sat at a table nearest the back, next to a fountain with crystalline water and what looked to be little coins in the bottom. He wondered who had made that decision - surely it was to make the setting more... _ inhabited _ -looking. 

One of the bulky robots with an inverted, triangular torso zipped towards his table, dispensing a menu, roll of silverware, and a glass of water before him. “Thanks,” Mark said, saluting the ‘waiter’. He chuckled to himself, grabbing the menu and briefly scanning its contents.

It was only a minute before the waiter returned, oddly aware that he’d just chosen what he wanted. “I’ll have the rigatoni alla diabla, with the sauteed spinach.” The waiter bowed and rolled away.

Seeing as how he was the only one in the restaurant, his food was delivered to him promptly, and Mark dug in ravenously. He felt like he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in forever - in reality, it had been decades. 

As he ate, he considered what he’d done thus far. Arthur had made a valid point, regardless of how obscure and completely off-track it had been. Mark was having fun. It was nice to explore and forget his feelings for a little while. 

He finished his food quickly and abandoned his dishes there, happy that his ID band carried all of his charges so that he didn’t have to wait to pay. Not that he could afford to eat here all the time, anyway.

  
  


Deck Two was more impressive than the last, with more interesting things for him to behold. He found an arcade, like a glittering beacon shouting,  _ ‘Mark! Look here! Video games!’  _ Sure enough, the inside was dark, with glittering black-lights and glowing designs on the walls. Row after row of arcade games stood before him, even the retro, stand-up joystick kind. He was grinning like an idiot.

The first game stood before him: a flagship game with a cockpit to play in and a sign that flashed the words ‘Z Factor!’ at him. He stepped closer, inspecting the inside. There was a huge holographic display on the screen, and a fairly comfortable-looking chair that resembled a pilot’s chair in an actual cockpit. 

He swiped his ID band over the panel labeled TOKENS. A voice boomed at him. 

“ _ Mark Fischbach! Welcome to the cutting edge of gaming! The greatest challenge you will ever know! _ ” 

He doubted it, seeing as how he had definitely faced far worse, far more frustrating games. With a chill down his spine, he thought of  _ I Am Bread. _ “All right then.” He clambered over the side door into the cockpit, taking his seat and sticking his arms through the straps. He didn’t really think he needed to, but why not go for the whole experience?

“ _ Are you ready to play Z Factor? _ ”

“Yes!” He was grinning again. This was his idea of therapy.

“ _ Begin! _ ” The screen changed and faded into an image: a fortress shining on a hilltop, war machines crawling over blasted terrain.  **LEVEL ONE** .

A warrior appeared in the center, grimacing and crouching in his natural pose. Mark’s character. He clicked the CUSTOMIZE option and played around with the controls, making the most ridiculous version of himself that he possibly could. He felt a twinge in his heart - it reminded him of his time playing  _ Sims  _ with his friends, creating ridiculous characters and names. 

When he was done, he clicked the BEGIN option, and his character rose from the war-torn ground with a beam of light…and was immediately torn to shreds by enemy fire. 

“ _ You lose! Z Factor reigns supreme! _ ”

“What?” Mark said, releasing the controls. He hadn’t even  _ moved  _ yet. Perhaps this would be a challenging game.

He played again, and then again, and then once more. Each time, he was alive for mere seconds before he was eliminated. Eventually, he was sweating and yelling childishly at the screen, and that was when he decided that it was time to find something else to do.

  
  


There was a movie theatre on deck four. By the time he’d left the theatre, all clocks told him of how late it had gotten. It wasn’t as if he could tell the time by looking outside. 

The movie theatre was vast, with seats to hold a thousand people and red velvet draped from the walls. He chose a seat in the very center of the house - the best seat, in his opinion. As if on cue, the second his butt hit the seat, the curtains rolled open. A film he’d never heard of began on the screen.

He could get used to this, but he didn’t want to.

Tomorrow he’d get back to figuring out the pod situation.


	7. Desperation

**THREE MONTHS LATER**

_Z Factor!_ was a game he was determined to beat. He played it once a day, each time getting better and better. With more practice, he’d been able to get past the first level, and then the first ten, and so on.

He was on fire. On-screen, his character, still ridiculous, battled dragons on top of a crystalline mountain. The screen flashed **LEVEL 40**. He moved his character like a black belt, throwing kicks and swipes with his sword and every special move he’d learned. He was covered in sweat.

This was the final level: the boss level. Before his character stood a colossus with a hundred eyes, large and blood-red. Mark prepared himself. He couldn’t imagine the Final Enemy would go down easily.

He used every ounce of game knowledge he’d ever obtained, and after fighting dutifully, the boss fell down in defeat. Mark let out a verbal cheer, pumping his fist in the air. He was much too into this game.

 _“You are victorious!_ ” The game shouted at him.

“Yeah!”

“ _You are the Grand Master of Z Factor!_ ” The screen rolled with highscores, all of which sported Mark’s initials. He was the only one to touch this game thus far.

“I am the Grand Master!” He repeated triumphantly, elated. Crawling out of the cockpit, he found himself faced with all of the other games he hadn’t touched yet. He’d defeated this one, and so it was time to choose another one to obsess over.

  


Another few hours in the arcade had left him famished, and so he found himself seated at a clean, stained-glass forged table in Bella Cantina, the Mexican restaurant. The robot waiters were the same as the Italian restaurant, but here, they were dressed differently.

His eyes bore down into the wreckage of his lunch - just a few crumbs and a sour cream container that was mostly empty - as he debated if he wanted anything else.

In his months aboard, he’d finally given in to the temptation to drink. It had been a rocky start, with stomach pains and panicked trips to the medical bay, but there he’d found his solution; the medical technology on the ship was phenomenal, and within a few visits the robotic nurses had cured him of his ailments and supplied him with enough supplements - all natural - to keep him from _dying._ So now he could drink. And _boy,_ did he.

He set down his margarita glass with a soft _plink,_ smiling in his drunken state. “Another margarita!” He cheered, staring blissfully at the pile of empty glasses. He’d had a few by now.

“You have had many, señor.”

He leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Oh, come on! One more!”

“Sí, señor.” The robot waiter zipped off to obtain his drink.

He was positively drunk.

The library was where he spent his time when he wasn’t drinking with Arthur, eating, or in the arcade. He’d spent time searching the books and finding one that suited him, evident in the furniture he’d created from stacks of them in his suite. A week ago, he’d found the language section, with programs he could put on the computers in the research bay.

“This is the Schwartz German Language Course. Level One. Let’s Begin. Repeat after me. Ich bin Amerikaner.”

“Ich bin Amerikaner.”

“I am American.”

“I am American.”

“Ich spreche Deutsch nicht gut.”

“Ich spreche Deutsch nicht gut.”

“I don’t speak German very well.”

“I don’t speak German very we-hey!” Mark laughed softly, shaking his head. He was sure that it wasn’t intentional, but it still amused him that the computer program was calling him out like this. He continued to repeat the phrases, feeling as though he sounded better each time. German was always something he’d wanted to learn, along with Korean, so that he could speak to his mother’s family. Before he’d left Earth, he was getting pretty good at it, too, but he’d given up the second he’d decided to travel to Homestead II. Why try to learn a language to speak to family that would be dead before you knew better? Those had been a dark few months.

That evening, he found himself back at the bar, three empty glasses sitting in front of him. He’d gone from Arthur’s virgin mixed drinks to Arthur’s alcoholic mixed drinks, and then straight to hard liquor. His supplements kept him - and his liver - well enough, so he didn’t see the point in remaining sober anymore.

He was positively drunk after those few glasses of scotch, and as Arthur placed another in front of him, he slurred in terrible German, “ _I be study the German_.”

Arthur grinned at him, teeth eerily white. Mark squinted at him. Replying in perfect German, Arthur said, “Good for you! It’s a beautiful language.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “You speak German!”

Arthur nodded as if Mark had said something stupid. “Of course. We have German passengers.”

Mark shrugged, putting all of his weight onto his forearms, which were braced against the edge of the counter. “Well, I’m trying new things. From now on, every time I sit down, I want a drink I haven’t had before.”

“Fair enough.” Arthur turned away from him and disappeared behind the counter, resurfacing with a few different containers in his hands. He didn’t bother mixing drinks on the back counter anymore; Mark was the only customer, and the wonder of Arthur’s mixing talent was lost on him.

The drink he created this time was bright green - and odd, almost sickly color. Mark took a sip and immediately grimaced, smacking his lips. “What _is_ this?”

“Something new.” Arthur smiled.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Mark sipping at his drink and Arthur getting to work on cleaning the glasses of the ones he’d finished. After a long, sober pause, Mark mumbled, “My dad was German.”

“Really?” Arthur asked without looking up.

“Yeah. My mom was Korean. I’d always wanted to learn German and Korean back home. My mom was teaching the latter to me, but I never made any real progress.” He stared down into his drink, shoulders heavy. Speaking of his mother in the past tense was breaking his heart.

“Why not?”

“Because I left Earth.” Mark shook his head, glancing up at the android. Arthur was watching him thoughtfully. “I tried learning German once, but I stopped. I never had enough time to sit down and do it.”

Arthur seemed to be pondering that. “So what encouraged you to start now?” He asked simply. “Your father is dead.”

Mark blinked at how blunt the android was. He supposed he couldn’t help it. “Now I have nothing but time,” He said miserably, taking a long sip of his drink. “My dad died when I was a teenager.”

“Cancer, I’m assuming?”

Mark frowned. “How did you know?”

Arthur shrugged. “I’ve been scanning your vitals once a week,” He said, as if it wasn’t _extremely_ obtrusive. “Your bloodline is littered with the cancer gene.”

“Well thanks, Arthur.” Mark let out a bitter chuckle, setting the mostly-empty glass down. Arthur retrieved it, his rag already prepared.

Arthur was quiet. He seemed to understand that he’d hit a nerve, and Mark was amazed by that. The android’s progression was phenomenal. “You need some sleep, Mark. Your exhaustion is becoming very evident.”

Mark nodded, rubbing at his eyes. “You’re right.” He got up from the stool, stumbling a little. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d stumbled drunkenly back to his suite. “Goodnight Arthur.”

“I imagine I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.” Arthur winked. “Goodnight, Mark.”

  


(another) **THREE MONTHS LATER**

He was a walking corpse. A skeleton in a skin suit, with sunken eyes and a breath that reeked of booze. He slept soundly in his bed in the Berlin Suite for the first time in weeks, mainly because he’d passed out after a night of heavy drinking, evident in the empty bottles on his bedside table. The sheets were tangled with his legs; his forehead was covered in sweat; his facial hair was long, untamed for weeks: Mark was a wreck.

He woke with a start, his eyes flying open and legs shooting out, but didn’t get up. Within seconds, there were tears on his face, and he felt as though he were sinking back into the mattress. This was how he started every morning: laying there, tears in his eyes, for what felt like hours. It was usually because he felt too heavy to move.

After a few minutes, he shifted his weight and let the sheets fall. He was wearing a dirty t-shirt and gym shorts, showcasing the small bit of a beer gut he’d formed over the course of the last couple of months. Mark had exercised every morning at first, but as he grew more and more painfully lonely, he didn’t see the point. He didn’t see the point in anything.

The cafeteria was empty, as it was every morning, and his food was plain, as it was every morning. He ordered his usual coffee and sat at a table by a window, sipping and staring out at nothing. His eyes had been hazy lately - he never noticed anything for long, and he tended to stare at things for long periods of time. He didn’t go to the spa anymore, and his nightly routine was written in stone: the same dinner at the same restaurant, the same amount of time in the arcade, the same amount of time at the bar. Arthur still surprised him with new drinks, but Mark struggled to be excited about anything anymore, and as of late, he couldn’t taste anything. The world was slowly fading into black and white.

Whereas he’d been trying out new games in the arcade before, he just played _Z Factor!_ for hours on end now. Beating it was easy.

“ _You are victorious!_ ” The game screamed at him.

He didn’t care. Mark stared empty-eyed at the screen. His face was expressionless. The cockpit felt like a coffin.

_“New high score!”_

Sighing, Mark put his initials into the blanks: **MEF.** As the blinking line appeared at the top and scrolled, he barely noticed the list. _MEF, MEF, MEF, MEF, MEF…_

  


The next morning, he didn’t bother showering. Or getting coffee. Or going to the arcade. The first place he went was the Concourse Bar.

His German was fluent now, and he and Arthur often had long, open-ended conversations in it. Arthur seemed to like correcting Mark when he made mistakes, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, much less be offended.

He spoke in German this time. “ _I’m ready for today’s new drink.”_

Arthur looked hesitant. He replied in German, as well. “ _I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mark._ ”

Mark looked up, brows furrowed. He thumped his fist on the bar. “ _Don’t argue with me, robot. Give me a new drink._ ”

Arthur looked hesitant again. He replied reluctantly, in English, “There are no new drinks.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can make two thousand, seven hundred and thirty-eight cocktails. You’ve had them all.”

Mark sat there for a second, defeated. Had he really had _that_ many drinks? He couldn’t have been here that often, surely. There was no way. The news hit him hard, like grief for a lost loved one. He heaved a sigh. “There are no new drinks,” Mark repeated, hating the way the words sounded in his mouth.

That night, he skipped his usual routine. He didn’t see the point in going to the arcade, or the bar, or eating dinner, for that matter. Instead, he went to the ship’s nightclub, intent on sitting in the dark and listening to music so loud he couldn’t think.

A holographic lounge singer stood on the stage, wearing a form-fitting dress that slit on the side, revealing a long, polished leg. She stared at him with sultry eyes, her lips parted to release the voice in her throat. He’d never heard the song, but her voice was perfect, predictably.

He knew she was fake, but it didn’t keep his breath from hitching in his throat when he saw her. His loneliness had taken form in tears and physical pain, and Mark couldn’t help but approach.

He reached out a hand, fingers longingly touching her face. The second his skin collided with the hologram, she dissolved into static, her voice now playing on the speakers above.

He let his hand fall to his side, eyes closed. His desperation was agonizing. He was crying again.


	8. Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has finally come, and you are in the story!

He’d stopped going to the cafeteria. The room full of empty tables and chairs was painful to him, and he knew that if he kept seeing it, he’d break. Instead, he went to the vending machines, trying out a few different snacks every couple of days. This particular morning, he munched on potato chips out of a bag. A sweeper robot followed him like a little duckling, whirring and excitedly cleaning up the crumbs he left behind. He fed it chips: one for Mark, one for the robot, and so on.

The forward observation deck was as empty as any other room, but it seemed a little less lonely to him when he could see a lot of space. The sweeper robot followed him in. 

Mark stood at a window, staring longingly out at the universe. It was dark. He sighed.

Without warning, Mark’s body crumpled and he felt himself wracked by sobs - violent, shivering rolls through the shoulders and big, hot tears in his eyes. He placed his forehead against the glass, moaning in agony. He sounded like a grieving mother, standing over her child. His cries were agonizing.

He let his weight carry him to the floor and stared blindly at the room before him, vision blurred. Suddenly, the room began to move, and with delayed shock, Mark realized that he was sitting on the sweeper robot. Having lost interest in his lack of crumbs, it was whirring around the room now, cleaning up spots that weren’t dirty.

He didn’t get off when it left the room, headed for the Celestial Promenade. It carried him into an elevator, past the Concourse Bar. Arthur waved at him, seemingly amused but speechless. Mark waved back.

On Deck One, a panel in the wall shifted open and Mark ducked, allowing the robot to carry him inside. What he found astonished him.

Once the robot had carried him to a spot he could stand up, he shifted off of it, watching curiously as it zipped off towards another hatch. Mark looked around, realizing what this was - a mechanical hive. This was where the robots went to be cleaned, recharged, even fixed. There were robots everywhere, moving in different directions and completing different tasks. There were robots he hadn’t seen before. None of them ever collided or seemed lost. He envied the latter part.

He noticed with a bit of wonder that his sweeper robot had returned, evident in the number on its side, and was currently  _ vomiting  _ it’s contents into a waste chute. He chuckled a little, for the first time in months. He knew it was just a deposition, but the design of the robot truly made it look like it was puking. 

After his sweeper robot disappeared into a re-charging bay, he decided to explore. This room was an engineer’s fantasy, and everything he’d ever wanted to build. Futuristic and  _ functional _ , in such an amazing way. For the first time in a long time, there was light in his eyes, and he almost smiled.

It didn’t take long to realize that being back there was dangerous. Cranes and exposed flames moved around at rapid rates, which may have been dangerous, but living humans weren’t intended to be back there to begin with. Sighing with a feeling he didn’t recognize, he slipped through another hatch, finding himself in the…

...Hibernation bay. Thousands of full pods. Thousands of strange faces. He hadn’t been to this corner of the bay before.

His feet came to an abrupt halt, his eyes fixed. Before him was a pod he hadn’t seen before, and inside was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on. She was asleep, but appeared full of life still. Her stoic expression took his breath away.

“Who are you?” He said, lips parted in wonder. Mark stepped forward, squinting at her data screen.  **(Y/N) NELSON** .  **23.**

“(Y/N),” He said thoughtfully, stepping past her and examining the rest of the faces in her cluster of pods. It wasn’t long, though, before he stood before her again, reading the rest of her information. “New York City. Journalist.”

  
  
  


 

 

The library’s cluster of research computers was familiar to him, and he’d practically laid claim to the one he’d been using for his German lessons. He pulled up the ‘ _ Passenger Log _ ’ program and typed her name into it. It returned a list of articles from the  _ New Yorker _ , with titles like, ‘ _ The New Corporate Overlords _ ’,  _ ‘Patient or Patent? Genetic Medicine and You _ ’,  _ ‘Modern Love: Dating the Database _ ’. 

He selected the files and brought them up on the adjacent screen, skimming them for a moment. After he’d satisfied his curiosity, he swiped them down onto a digital slate, carrying it with him out of the library.

This time, at the bar, he didn’t ask for a drink. He was too busy reading one of her articles, and Arthur, who had been keeping busy, seemed to notice his fixation.

“Did you know ninety percent of the businesses in the world are owned by just eight companies?” Mark asked, not looking up. 

Arthur jumped on the conversation. “Is that right?”

Mark nodded. “She’s good. She knows her stuff, and she’s not afraid of anybody.” He felt like he knew her already.

“Who is that?” Arthur sounded like curious mother.

“(Y/N),” Mark said simply.

“Ah,” Arthur replied, almost immediately, “The writer.” He was smiling. “I see you’ve been exploring the hibernation bay.”

“Oh yeah,” Mark said, fixated on the words in front of him. He repeated, “She’s good.”

 

 

 

 

**THREE MONTHS LATER**

His suite was a wreck, but at least there weren’t fresh liquor bottles everywhere. Instead, dirty clothes and food wrappers and crumbs littered the floors and counters. Mark lay in bed in a pair of sweatpants, his eyes closed and overgrown facial hair somehow even longer. 

This time, when his eyes opened, he wasn’t quite ready to wake up. He felt under his pillow for a remote, and pressed a button on the bottom, watching as the shades on the windows lowered to hide the stars beyond them. 

When he finally did wake, he kept his blanket around his shoulders, wearing nothing but sweatpants and the slippers he’d been given when he’d woken up. A housekeeping robot waited anxiously outside his door, intent on coming in and  _ finally  _ making the place presentable. He thought about pressing the Do Not Disturb option on his panel, and listening to the frustrated way the robot would squeal as the doors shut on his mess. He’d been keeping them out for months, but this time, he let it in. It made an excited noise and slipping inside, arms ready.

He’d started bringing cereal from the cafeteria and eating it in various places on the ship. He was getting too overweight eating snacks every morning, and besides, it didn’t hurt him to go there as long as he didn’t have to sit alone.

He stood before (Y/N)’s pod with the bowl in his hands, munching loudly on the cereal. His eyes were glued to her face, studying every feature, every line. She was breathtaking.

At the bar, Arthur seemed perturbed about a cereal bowl being on his counter. It wasn’t necessarily a dish he handled very often. Mark hadn’t bothered to put more clothes on, and the first thing Arthur had commented on was Mark’s apparent “need for comfort”. 

He glowered down into his glass. It was scotch. He hated the taste. “I’m not saying the universe is evil,” He said sadly, “It just has an ugly sense of humor. It doesn’t just crush you. It crushes you ironically. It crushed you ironically.”

Arthur sighed. “Things may look dark sometimes…”

Mark ignored him. “You get to fly to another planet, but you die on the way. You’re completely alone, with the perfect woman right in front of you, just out of reach.”

Arthur frowned. “(Y/N).”

“Yes, (Y/N)! Arthur, I’m falling for her. I’ve read all her stuff. Sometimes I talk to her and I know exactly what she’d say.”

Arthur looked crossly at him. “Mark, (Y/N)’s asleep.”

“I know,” Mark said, deflated. He put his head down on the bar. “I know.”

 

 

 

 

 

The Observatory was home to him on nights when he felt particularly alone. He’d go in and dim every light to blackness, have the robot raise the blinds, and stare out into space - he was lost, but at least the ship he called home now had a destination. The debri he saw floating by on occasion was not so lucky.

This time, instead of staring out the window, he sat alone, in the dark, with the ship’s pathway on a hologram in front of him. The  _ Avalon  _ hung suspended in the air, aimed at Homestead II, with 90 years to go. The digital clock was running. He’d been watching the numbers for hours. 

The ticking was loud in his head.  _ 30 years traveled. 90 years to go. 30 years. 90 years. 30. 90. 30- _

There was a loud  _ click  _ and a shift in the hologram. Mark gasped; the numbers were different. He sunk further into the chair.  _ TIME TRAVELED: 31 YEARS. TIME REMAINING: 89 YEARS. _

He’d be lucky to see sixty more of them.


	9. Wake Up

He stood at the sink in his futuristic bathroom with a shaver in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. He'd already clipped the longer sections off, evident by the loose clumps of dark hair lying in his sink, and had yet to work up the courage to attack his beard with the shaver. It was quite a process for him. 

"I'm shaving off my beard," He said aloud, finding some comfort in the sound of his own voice. It was a proclamation, as if saying it out loud could convince him to go through with it. "It's wrong, man."

His thoughts were a scattering of sporadic images and feelings - they came at him in waves, crashing against his conscious mind like a freight train. He had to distract himself, or the ticking in his fingers might lead him into treacherous territory - a toolbox stranded at the bottom of a hibernation pod that didn't belong to him. 

Sighing, he flicked the button on the shaver and watched the green light come on. It was time. Whiskers fell in piles into the sink; he'd have to clean them out or else they'd surely clog his sink. Slowly, but surely, a face he hadn't seen in months emerged.

"Seriously wrong. You can't do it." 

His attempts to persuade himself were proving futile, and unless he was constantly distracted, he was terrified that he wouldn't be able to resist. Mark scraped the hair out of the sink and threw it into the trash, using water to flush the remaining down the drain. After it was clean, he splashed water on his face, resting for a moment in the cool air. The towel that wiped his face dry was soft and white.

"Don't even think about it," He said, eyeing himself in the mirror. He had a razor in his hand now, intent on shaping the scruff he'd left behind. "I'm shaving my beard."

 

 

A squadron of housekeeping robots waited outside his door, releasing squeals of joy when he didn't shut them out. As he turned the corner, wearing a pair of dirty jeans and carrying the hibernation pod manual, he was fighting himself. His feet carried him in a dangerous direction, but he couldn't make himself turn around. 

Her pod was in front of him and he couldn't remember entering the hibernation bay. He must've come here on autopilot. His shoulders heaved with heavy breaths. He didn't want to do this, but he couldn't stop himself.

His fingers were on fire as he turned the pages of the manual, of which were heavily annotated with scrawls of his handwriting. He opened the main panel on the side of the pod, boring down at the wires and components he had yet to touch. He'd stopped keeping count of how many times he'd done this. It had been a routine, every day: open the hatch, stare, cry, close the hatch. Lay on the floor with his head tucked between his knees. Sob. Hate himself for his lack of self control, for how lonely he felt. Drag his heavy bones back to the Concourse Bar. 

This time his fingers touched the wires. His hands were shaking. He followed the manual step by step, heaving a deep breath with each tug or flick of his fingers, so scared that he might hit that final step and not be able to stop himself. 

Mark hesitated. He could stop here. He could still put things back the way they were, and she'd be fine. If he pulled this final component out of its dock, all would be lost, and he'd have to live with it.

Her face rested peacefully. She had no idea that her fate hung promptly in his hands, and he felt as though he could just see it contorting when she realized. His breath caught in his throat. He was staring down at the person he was destroying, and he couldn't stop.

He ripped it out. 

A hum of energy. A click, a pause. Lights. The screen above the hatch came to life and spilled line after line of medical data. Her pod shifted more upright, as if ready to deposit her already. Her vital signs began to balance at their natural state as spindly, robotic arms injected her with different kinds of vitamins and serums, making her skin look more colorful and her body less like a corpse. 

He stood. Took a step back. Her status read "STASIS ENDED" and Mark felt the floor tumble out from under him. He couldn't believe himself, that he'd done this. With a final heave of breath, he bolted for the door, stumbling out of sight.

Inside the pod, (Y/N)'s chest flooded with air, raising her up slightly and shooting back up her throat. Her lips parted, releasing the breath, and she took another one all on her own. Her thighs shifted as she bent her knees, testing her muscles and making sure she still felt her toes. She was barely cognizant, but this, at least, was instinctual. The sensors withdrew. 

She opened her eyes. They were a deep, vibrant (E/C) and harbored a new sort of life that had been absent for thirty-one years. 

A panel shifted beneath her and raised, turning her pod into a chair of sorts, giving her a better position to get her bearings. The same screen that had popped up in front of Mark's face met hers, playing the same video, with the same woman. 

The stewardess was grinning. "Good morning,  _(Y/N)!_ " 

She blinked groggily as the video began to play.

 

 

Back in the Berlin suite, Mark was having a panic attack. He stumbled through the door wide-eyed, like a crazed animal that had just escaped a truck on the road. His heart was thundering in his chest, making each breath feel like a knife through his throat. He fumbled with his toolbox, shoving it - as well as the manual - into the closet behind his bags, which he used to hide the corners. 

He stumbled towards the bathroom, gripping the sides of the sink until his knuckles turned white. "What have I done?" He asked himself, staring with alarm at his own reflection. His voice was a hoarse whisper. His throat was dry and burning.

He turned on the faucet, splashing the cool water on his face. It didn't help. Nothing helped.

He was a psychopath, and he'd just killed someone.

 


	10. Y/N

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK! I've been on hiatus, and I'm SO sorry, but with school starting soon I've found new motivation, so be prepared for more chapters coming your way!

**Y/N**

She was groggy, confused. Always confused. All of the lights were too bright, and the floor was too cold. The stiffness in her limbs made her feel like she'd been in a coma. In a way, she sort of had.

As she stepped out of her pod and slipped on the complimentary robe and slippers, (Y/N) looked around, blinking sleepily. 

A robotic voice played over the speakers above her. " _You're ready to go to your cabin! Enjoy the rest of your stay, (Y/N)!"_

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Wait," She mumbled, voice gravelly, "Why are all these people still hibernating?" 

The robot ignored her. A blue line ignited on the floor, leading to a hallway. " _(Y/N), your cabin is this way!"_

Still confused, she followed the line. Walking felt odd, as if she'd had two broken legs and just removed the casts; it resembled that feeling after a limb fell asleep, when it was heavy (but still usable), right before the sharp stinging set in. It got better as she moved, though, and by the time she reached the doors to her suite, she felt almost like a normal human being.

Her suite was a first-class setup, with a door that overlooked the Grand Concourse. Inside, little white robots were making a show of keeping the dust from settling on her furniture, and a taller, skinnier one with a chrome finish was ironing her clothes, sorted by color and type in the long, walk-in closet. Her bags had been opened and sorted as well, tucked neatly onto shelves and into drawers, and the empty luggage stored on the top shelf of her closet along with her shoes. She was pleased - if there was one thing (Y/N) didn't want to do right now, it was unpack.

Her bed was seated in the center of the room - a king-sized bed - facing a large panoramic window with a view that took her breath away. _Focus._

As she approached the bed, a video screen centered in front of the window lit up, the _Avalon_ theme beginning to play. As the words, " _Welcome to your cabin-"_ began to play, she slapped the screen, abruptly turning it off. The phone was what she was really after, and it only took two small strides to the bedside table to grab it and begin looking for numbers. (Y/N) tapped the directory icon and then a big blue button labeled 'Information'. _No one is available at this number._

Frowning, she began to tap other phone links, faster and faster until the automated message could not longer complete the first word. _No one is available...No one is...No one...No one...No one is available at this number._

"What the hell is going on?" She set the phone down a little too harshly and winced at the sound. If she was going to find someone, she was going to have to look for them herself.

 

 

 

 

Mark was a nervous wreck. He'd hidden in his room for what felt like hours after waking her up, and when he finally gathered the courage to come out, he'd just paced around the Grand Concourse, glancing around. She could be anywhere.

"Hello?" A voice echoed from the ground below, compelling Mark to dart forward, glancing over the edge of the balcony in front of the Elite Promenade.

His voice was a husky whisper. "Hi." He realized quickly that she wouldn't be able to hear him. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called, "Hello!"

She spun around. Spotted him. Her eyes widened with an emotion he couldn't place. "Hey, I want to talk to you!"

"I'll come down!" Mark made a break for the stairs, jogging down all six flights of them in a surprisingly agile way. His heart was in his throat. By the time he reached the bottom and stepped out into the Grand Concourse, he was out of breath, and he hoped he didn't look at out of shape as he felt. He stopped a few yards in front of her, just staring, hoping he could get his breath back before he had to say something.

"Passenger or crew?" She asked, her measuring expression trained on him.

"Passenger. Mark Fischbach." He stuck out a hand and she shook it firmly. He tried not to think about how warm her skin was, or how long it had been since he'd had physical human contact.

"I'm (Y/N)," She said, offering him a small smile. His lips moved as she said her name, almost as if he was saying it with her. _(Y/N)._ She didn't notice. "Do you know what's happening?" She continued, tilting her head curiously. "Nobody else in my row woke up."

"Yeah, I..." His heart had crept further up his throat. "Same for me."

She looked panicked. He felt awful already. "The crew's supposed to wake up a month before we do, but I haven't seen anybody."

Mark swallowed hard. "The crew's still sleeping. They've got a special facility. I can see them in there, but I can't get in."

She froze. "You're saying nobody's awake?"

He nodded, slowly. "Just me."

(Y/N) didn't look to be processing - he could see the gears turning in her head. "Just you?" She repeated back, quietly. She sounded horrified.

When he spoke again, it was delicate. "Just us."

She was shaking her head. "B-but somebody has to land the ship in a few weeks!"

He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "(Y/N)..." He didn't know how to make her understand, until it clicked. The same way he had. "I need to show you something."

 


End file.
